


The lilting witchery, the unrest (Of wingèd dreams, is in our breast)

by blackkat



Series: luminous beings are we [2]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dragon Jedi, Humor, M/M, Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25391371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: They're supposed to bespacer tales.
Relationships: CC-6454 | Ponds/Mace Windu
Series: luminous beings are we [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838944
Comments: 39
Kudos: 1072
Collections: Randomness





	The lilting witchery, the unrest (Of wingèd dreams, is in our breast)

They're supposed to be _spacer tales_.

Ponds has heard plenty of them, of course; all the clones have. As soon as Jedi are mentioned, everyone seems to have a story, a firsthand account of mother’s boyfriend’s grandfather’s best friend who saw a Jedi do something incredible once upon a time, a story they're obliged to share as soon as they realize there's a Jedi nearby. Ponds has been told about Jedi turning into stars, or animals, or moving planets. He’s heard about Jedi who can speak to plants and Jedi who grow _out_ of plants, Jedi who can grow wings or walk through space or shift continents.

There aren’t a lot of Jedi, after all, especially considering the size of the galaxy, and the vast majority of the Republic’s population has never seen one. At first it was aggravating, all the tall tales and misinformation, the belief that the Jedi were something beyond the scope of most beings, capable of miracles, and therefore at fault when things went wrong. Now, though, it’s mostly just amusing, and Ponds will admit he’s tucked a few of the more far-fetched tales away to share with the other commanders next time they meet up. There are variations on every planet, and lots of repeated tales, but—

The one that always comes back is _dragons._

It’s the one Ponds would definitely share if it weren’t common enough that likely ever trooper has at least heard mention of it at this point. Jedi as dragons, and old spacefarers muttering about vast beasts with claws and teeth fit to rend, and—well. It’s all ridiculous. Ponds had practically laughed in the face of the first long-distance hauler to tell him about it, and it brought him to snickers just _yesterday_ , imagining his general—Mace _kriffing_ Windu, Master of the Order, general without peer, Jedi of greatest renown, _champion_ of the whole Order—as some big scaly lizard thing out of myth.

Ponds isn't laughing now.

The tanks that had Lightning Squadron trapped and pinned down are flaming chunks of rubble, scattered across the battlefield. There's a swath of droid parts, some melting in the winter sun, carpeting the ground, and the cannons that were about to put a very abrupt end to their advancement—likely permanently—are twisted and bent, clutched in long black claws.

At the very least, Ponds tells himself, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in his chest. _At the very least_ , he can't call Mace a big scaly lizard, because that’s a _kriffing dragon_.

With a growl that rumbles like thunder and practically shakes the battlefield, Ponds’s general, who just turned himself into a beast the size of a small cruiser, drops to the ground, dumping the pieces of the cannons aside with clear distaste. There are no scales, just dark, leathery hide, black down his back and sides and pale purple down his long neck and beneath his wide wings. His eyes are purple too, burning, and they settle on Ponds without hesitation. His head dips, and—

“Casualty report, Commander,” Mace says. _Mace_ says. The _dragon that is Mace_ says.

Ponds can't even begin to formulate a response. Or use words.

A hand catches his elbow, gently tugging him back, and Razor slips past him, pushing him into Stak's grip. “Sorry, General, I think you broke him,” Razor says with good humor, stepping right up in front of the dragon. Mace. _Mace the dragon_.

Ponds maybe needs to go sit down for a minute and focus on not hyperventilating.

Mace cocks his head, and—it’s the same motion as Mace raising a brow, only dragons don’t have brows, so he can't do it the way Ponds is used to. That’s definitely judgment, though, faintly amused and entirely tolerant, and Mace snorts.

“Of all the things I thought would rattle you, Commander,” he says dryly, “this isn't the one.”

“It’s a _spacer tale_ ,” Ponds finally manages, a little too loud. “Like—like plants turning into Jedi—”

“There are Neti Jedi,” Mace says, and the humor in his face isn't something Ponds should be able to read but he _can_.

“You're a _dragon_ ,” Ponds says, and that’s. That’s definitely a little hysterical.

“I'm a Jedi,” Mace counters, and lowers his head even further, sinuous neck bending, wings sweeping out and down. “They're largely interchangeable.”

“Yes, sir,” Ponds says faintly, and sits down a little harder than he intends to, pulling his helmet off. He doesn’t quite put his head between his knees, but—the thought is definitely there.

There's a quiet huff from above him— _far_ above him—and Mace shifts back a step. “Casualties?”

“One injured, sir, but Brass is with him,” Razor reports. “You got to us in time.”

He did. He dropped out of the kriffing sky, a small body plummeting down, and Ponds had seen him falling, had thought—had been _terrified_ —

And then he was a dragon, between one second and the next, and he landed on the tanks, and Lightning Squadron very abruptly wasn’t the Seps’ biggest concern. They probably didn’t even rank tenth or twelfth on the list, after Mace started breathing _plasma_.

Purple plasma. Just like his lightsaber. Somehow, that thought feels _hilarious_ right now for reasons that Ponds can't figure, but which probably start and end with shock. Brass would know. Brass always knows.

“Commander?” that familiar voice asks, a thread of true concern in it, and Ponds breathes in, breathes out, and lifts his head.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, and makes a valiant attempt at not letting his eyes cross as he looks up at the giant dragon looming above him. Mace is—Mace is a handsome dragon. That’s an alright thing to think, right? Ponds can ignore the mouth full of _kriffing big teeth_ if he focuses on the sleek matte shine of Mace's hide, the tall, sharp horns, the row of spines running down his neck. “I thought—I thought they were spacer tales.”

Mace snorts, but he folds his wings, then slowly, deliberately folds down, long tail curling around him like a cat. Making himself less of a threat, trying not to loom, Ponds thinks, and has to close his eyes at the rush of impossible warmth for this ridiculous, amazing man, who’s always so careful with his troopers, with any lives entrusted to him.

Even if he’s a giant lizard who breathes plasma, he’s still Ponds’s general, and Ponds feels that knowledge like a trickle of relief through his chest, a settling of understanding that feels like hysteria easing.

“We don’t _hide_ it,” Mace says. “But changing takes effort, and many calories. I will…likely not be good for much once we get back to the base. At least for another day or two.”

“Sir?” Ponds asks, alarmed, and comes to his feet in an instant, taking a step towards Mace. “If it’s that bad, if changing now would make a difference, we can get you back—”

Mace's head dips, and he nudges the helmet Ponds is holding. Just once, and gently, with a thump of plastoid on hide, but—Ponds can recognize the gesture for what it’s meant to be, and he stops short.

“Easy, Ponds,” Mace says quietly. “I’ll get you and the men back to base first. Waiting that long to change won't do me any harm.”

“If you say so, sir,” Ponds says, already calculating the best way to make Mace stay in bed until he’s _fully_ recovered. Brass will help. _Everyone_ in Lightning Squadron will help. Mace is their general.

Mace's resigned sigh says he knows exactly what Ponds is thinking, but he knows them all well enough that he doesn’t even try to protest.

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